


The Sweet Misery Affair

by NienteZero



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fluffy Ending, Hurt Napoleon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump, captured napoleon, illya to the rescue, thrush are not nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 20:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10395855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NienteZero/pseuds/NienteZero
Summary: Trouble finds Napoleon when he investigates the latest THRUSH plot to cause trouble in the nation's capital. Illya works the other side of the case. Will he get to Napoleon in time to rescue him from the clutches of two of THRUSH's deadly dames?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nangi Akki](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Nangi+Akki).



"As you can see, in my sample case, I have only the finest pastry brushes. Note the all-metal handles and natural bristles. A pastry chef such as yourself, madam, will understand the quality of this basting brush. Or I can show you the best cleaning brushes you'll ever see."

If an illustration of the word "nebbish" was ever needed, the brush salesman currently standing in the commercial bakery of the Sobotka Catering Company would have served perfectly. From the cheap cut of his suit, to the trousers that weren't quite long enough, to the rounded set of his shoulders, the salesman gave off an air of inoffensive ineffectualness. 

Napoleon stepped in closer to the chef in whose kitchen he was standing, using his front and bluff to cover his true intentions. The sample case contained not only a complete set of the latest Fuller kitchen brushes, but where a normal case would have rubber feet, four tiny listening devices nestled. All he had to do was keep the chef's attention on his sales patter while he slipped them off the case and under the corners of the broad table that took up much of the kitchen floor. 

Usually it would be a simple matter to break in and place them while the building was empty at night. But a catering bakery was rarely empty, no matter the time of day. Now, in the middle of the afternoon, there were a handful of white-uniformed workers tending to doughs and pastries. The smell of sugar and yeast hung in the air too densely to be pleasing to the appetite, cloying like a perfume applied with a heavy hand. Heat rose from busy ovens and pans clanged. Napoleon knew that late at night and in the early hours of the morning, the usual hours of breaking and entry, the kitchen would be even more bustling. Napoleon would just have to do what he did so well and charm a lady into noticing his eyes more than his hands.

This lady, however, was not to be so easily moved. She stood about the same height as Napoleon, but broader and stocky. Her forearms were muscular from kneading dough, and her face bare of makeup. She had dark hair streaked with grey pulled back into a tight bun, under a white paper cap. A smudge of flour on the tip of her nose might have registered as cute on a woman with a face less severe; the baker was more patrician matriarch than blushing ingenue or flirty femme fatale. 

It was, in fact, slightly worrisome that she'd let Napoleon in to the kitchen so easily. Her sharp brown eyes and a certain crease above her brow suggested she didn't suffer fools and traveling salesmen well. Napoleon was expecting to use every trick in the body language playbook to get his foot, and his little bag of tricks, through the door.

Because this was Lucia Barcani, suspected by UNCLE to be the newest satrapy head of THRUSH in the metropolitan District of Columbia area. They suspected that the successful catering company hid darker secrets. If that was true, then Barcani was a very dangerous lady indeed.

"Demonstrate," she said, firmly, pointing to the basting brush. "Show me how it would improve over what I have."

"Perhaps I could demonstrate the superiority of one of our boar bristle scrubbing brushes on your work table?" Napoleon volunteered, looking for an opportunity to place the bugs.

"Perhaps you could do as I say."

"Ah, well," Napoleon ran a finger under the collar of his shirt, loosening the crooked bowtie perched there slightly. His cover identity would no doubt find Barcani daunting. He swallowed slightly and proceeded on with the canned sales speech as if she hadn't spoken.

"You see, ah, you see, on work tables such as this one, over time, there may be a fine layer of, well, madam, I assure you I am not implying that you keep a dirty kitchen, but you see, wooden tables accumulate germs." 

He started to pull out the brushes and lay them on the table. Barcani stepped into his personal space and put a hand on his arm.

"Step over this way and demonstrate the basting brush if you please. I have a loaf that you can egg wash."

Napoleon followed, reluctant but unwilling to risk getting kicked out of the kitchen before he could do his job.

"You are a single man? Not a married man? I see no ring," Barcani said abruptly.

"Well, er..." Napoleon still wasn't picking up any of the usual little tells that a woman was interested in his attentions, so this line of questioning was a curious. A ripple of genuine unease passed up his spine at the look in her eye. Eager, hungry. But not for love or sex. 

"I take that as yes, you are single," Barcani said. "Good. Stand still right where you are."

Before Napoleon had time to react, to reach the inevitable conclusion that he was no the hunter but the prey in the situation, a trapdoor had opened abruptly beneath his feet. He dropped swiftly, landing awkwardly on a hard floor, wind and sense knocked out of him.  


* * *

Diplomatic relations in Washington DC between certain countries were becoming colder than they ought to be. The source of the conflict were some uncharacteristic actions - hasty words, verbal and even minor physical altercations between guests at diplomatic social events. Fortunately the ambassador to the United States from Turkey had noticed a pattern and brought it to the attention of UNCLE. The affair was not public knowledge, yet. The UNCLE had been called in to see about the matter with the utmost possible discretion. A quick analysis had determined that there were three possible vectors by which the diplomats were being undly influenced, three groups who'd been present at all of the parties. Napoleon was to visit a suspicious florist and a catering company. The third suspect was a small light-orchestral ensemble. Thanks to Illya Kuryakin's musical aptitude, it fell to him to infiltrate the ensemble. 

Getting in to the group had been easy. The ensemble's horn player had been arrested for public drunkenness after a post-gig celebration at a Greenwich Village bar and was being held without bail. If the ensemble turned out to be innocent, UNCLE would arrange appropriate compensation for his lost wages in the form of a surprise windfall from an unknown relative. If they were THRUSH it wouldn't matter. For Illya to replace him, the audition had been little more than a bundle of sheet music thrust at him with "by sight", and a further bundle with "learn by Tuesday," from the band leader. Napoleon had been put out that Illya was spending his evenings with the English horn rather than in bed, but Illya thought that it sometimes did Napoleon good to have to wait for what he wanted.

Aside from missing the easy camaraderie of working with Napoleon, the affair was almost restful. Illya kept the night owl hours of a musician, turned up for rehearsals and gigs, drank a little in assorted jazz clubs, and kept his eyes peeled at Embassy events. By the third day Illya was certain the musicians were innocent of wrongdoing. By the fourth day he learned that Napoleon had cleared the florist. On the evening of the fourth day he became sure that the caterers were the THRUSH cover organization, and not just by process of elimination.

On the break between sets, Illya strolled casually through the reception room of the Hentzau Republic embassy, taking in the guests preening and chattering and playing dull games of political intrigue. One woman stood out among the others. She was tall and slender, with burnished copper hair, and wore a black dress that clung dramatically on the fine edge of propriety. Illya recognized her as Irena Sobotka, the owner of the catering company that Solo was investigating. She was serving as a hostess and coordinating the waitstaff, giving quiet, sharp orders. She seemed to be directing them to offer delicate petit fours to various dignitaries, to the point that it would have been rude for any of them to refuse. And the key giveaway that Illya was looking at a THRUSH member - that ridiculous bird brooch that so many of them insisted on wearing.

He pulled out his communicator and held it discreetly tucked into his sleeve, calling for a channel open to Napoleon. There was no response. A wrinkle formed on Illya's brow. Napoleon being out of contact was something to worry about later. They'd made a pact when they started this thing between them that it would never interfere with duty. For now, he noticed that some of the partygoers appeared more glazed-eyed than could be accounted for by the champagne the waiters were passing, and Irena seemed to be taking a special interest in one or two, stopping beside them to whisper lowly into their ears. Illya was getting the picture. Some sort of doping was at work here, a drug in the food combined with the subtle evil suggestions dripping from the woman's tongue. He had best be on his guard, ready to stop any incidents before they could blow out of proportion. 

* * *

The pen-shaped communicator beeped quietly in the pocket of Napoleon's jacket, which lay in an unceremonious heap on the floor of the cellar, but no-one heard it. Napoleon awoke, chained. Nothing was particularly new about that, but it was never one of his favorite sensations. He felt bruised all down his back, and his head was ringing. His memory stirred, the sensation of the floor falling away from under him and the tumble through the trapdoor. His situation came back through a daze of dizzy aching head - he was here under a false identity. He tugged at the chain connecting his shackled wrists to the ceiling. He looked up and saw a tightly fixed eye bolt. It might work loose with time. Certainly, there would be no harm in twisting his wrists this way and that to put a strain on it.

Napoleon examined the rest of his surroundings with a careful eye. The ceiling had a single bright incandescent bulb hanging from the beam next to the trapdoor he'd fallen through. The rest of the room was plain, white painted in a glossy paint that looked easy to wash down- all four walls and the floor. There was only one door coming into the room and it looked solid. A steel table sat against one wall, and a heavy-duty electrical outlet was mounted next to the table. Napoleon didn't think he'd been searched, but his hands were shackled above his head, far away from anything useful hidden in his clothes. While he put some hope in eventually wrenching loose the bolt that held his chains, pragmatically speaking he knew that his cover identity was currently the best thing he had going for him.

A simple salesman would not take waking up, bruised and chained, without a certain amount of caterwauling. Napoleon cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and sunk back into the milquetoast cover identity he'd been hiding under.

"HEEELP", he yelled, in the nasal tone he'd adopted for the role. "HELP, SOMEBODY HELP! YOU CAN'T KEEP ME IN HERE, HEEEELP." He might as well, he reasoned, get the lay of the land and find out what was going on as soon as possible. Little doubt that this catering company was in fact run by THRUSH, but Barcani's attitude hadn't suggested that his cover was blown. There was something else ugly and hungry about her attitude and her questions. It was too early to be afraid, but Napoleon was definitely unsettled.

The door to the room swung open silently. Lucia Barcani stepped through carrying a heavy looking toolbox and a small medical kit. 

"Be quiet," she said. "If you won't stop yelling I will gag you."

Interesting, Napoleon thought. Barcani apparently didn't intend to interrogate him. That aligned with his guess that his cover was still good. But that didn't mean anything pleasant about the immediate future. There were no good reasons for THRUSH to kidnap a civillian - and one who Napoleon guessed they thought wouldn't be missed too soon.

"What's going on? I demand that you release me!" Napoleon pestered. "You can't treat me like this. Do you know who I am? I was Fuller's top salesman five years running. Five years! If you want money, I can get you money. You just name the amount."

Barcani set the toolbox and the medical kit down on the table. She opened the medical kit and got out a roll of adhesive bandage.

"I told you to be quiet. You are not important here. You are not important to anyone any more."

She taped across Napoleon's mouth with quick efficiency, ignoring his ongoing protests. A part of him was relieved that he no longer had to work as hard at keeping his cover identity intact. To embody the role of a man deeply afraid and unnerved was to give up on some of his own defenses against what must surely come next.

Barcani took a thin knife out of the toolbox. Napoleon made a show of cringing away, but all she did was cut away the sleeve of his shirt. She took a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope from the medical bag and carefully measured Napoleon's vital signs, making quick notes. Next, Barcani tied a thin strip of fabric tightly around his upper arm. She swabbed his inner elbow with alcohol. Napoleon took a moment of dark amusement at her care to prevent infection. 

Barcani pulled a syringe and ampule from the medical kit, filling the syringe with care. She depressed the plunger until a little liquid came out of the needle. 

Napoleon groaned and writhed in his bonds. It took very little pretense to convey just how alarmed his undercover persona would be at the situation.

Barcani ignored him, holding his arm firmly as she injected the contents of the syringe into his vein. She didn't bother gloating or telling him what was in the syringe. She just packed up the medical kit and left him hanging, the toolbox ominously in his line of site on the metal table.

It didn't take long for Napoleon to guess at least a part of what the drug was for. The sensation started like crawling ants under his skin, but soon became an overall burn, sharper and deeper than the worst sunburn he'd ever had. The bruised muscles of his back were spasming in agony, and soon he was glad of the gag that muffled most of the moans of pain that he couldn't hold in.

* * *

Illya's set break was over. Fieldwork often called for rapid decisions. Sometimes they were life or death; other times the stakes were more complex. On the one hand, the sleek and dangerous woman in the black dress planting suggestions in the drugged guests' mind was still at work, on the other hand so far no incidents or confrontations were starting, and the atmosphere was still as light as any dry social occasion could be. UNCLE would certainly intervene and question the guests after the party, discreetly. But it was Illya's brief to avoid drawing notice to the situation if at all possible. So with some reluctance he returned to his position on the stage. The music was unchallenging. He could divide his attention between keeping his place and keeping a close eye on the drugged victims.

The ensemble played on, Illya's part played by memory as his attention was focused on gauging the growing risk to a peaceful end to the evening. The other musicians seemed unaware of the change in mood in the room as tempers soured and faces in the crowd reflected animosity toward each other. As the evening rolled on, Illya's mind was occupied in possibilities and choices. With his luck, things would not end smoothly. He once again wished that Napoleon were here. Two heads were better than one.

During the final piece the ensemble played, Illya noticed a stirring of activity in a far corner of the reception room. His gut told him that things were going to turn nasty, and soon. He didn't wait to take a bow toward the polite sprinkle of applause from the partygoers closest to the stage. He set his horn down and jumped off the stage, slipping through the crowd toward the source of the commotion.

A rotund man in a tail coat was confronting an elderly woman who was decorated with obscene amounts of jewelry signifying that she was Somebody. Illya slipped between them and applied a discreet but forceful grip to the man's elbow.

"Come with me," he said, "we'll take this conversation outside." 

The man blustered, but he seemed confused and not inclined to put up much resistance to Illya's manhandling.

Ilya had almost ushered the belligerent man into the grand entrance corridor of the embassy when he was confronted by the slim femme fatale in the black dress. In one hand she had a small pistol, in the other a petit four.

"Be a good boy and eat the cake."  


* * *

The next time Barcani came down into the cellar, Napoleon was hanging from his wrists, limp and exhausted from the full body neuropathy, the pain zinging all along the nerves like a demon under his skin. He'd struggled as long as he could to keep working on breaking loose, but eventually he'd succumbed to the pain and given up his efforts. With all his strength of will, he would not let despair keep company with the weakness he felt. He lifted his head, determined not to give in to Barcani's rough treatment without looking her in the eye.

She prepared another syringe, a smaller one this time. Napoleon grit his teeth and supressed the urge to flinch away from her. Really, he'd been through worse in Survival School. Or if not worse, then surely enough that he could withstand this like a man.

"Just a top up before we get down to business," Barcani said flatly, injecting him once again. Out came the stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. Given that she'd gagged him, Napoleon was just glad she wasn't trying to take his temperature. That was one indignity he was pleased to be spared.

The top-off dose of the infernal drug started to hit, and against his will Napoleon twisted in the bonds, his wrists chaffing against the restraints. Somehow he didn't think tonight's party ended with just the drugs.

Barcani tidied away the medical supplies and opened the toolbox. Napoleon sucked in a sharp breath when he saw what she took out of it. Not that he recognized the specific model, but he had a general idea of what was about to happen. 

* * *

Illya put his hands up in front of him. The last thing he wanted to do, among this crowd of the drunk, the drugged, and the easily excitable, was draw attention to Irena Sobotka holding a gun on him.

"I would much rather not," he said in a low tone as she pushed the unwanted and almost certainly adulterated pastry towards him, "I have to watch my figure."

"Eat the cake if you don't want more of a scene," Irena said, her face sporting a smirk that reminded Illya uncomfortably of Napoleon when he had an enemy cornered. She was undoubtedly beautiful, and undoubtedly dangerous, a combination that was much more to Illya's partner's taste.

Illya shoved the belligerent guest toward the deadly dame, counting on her startle reflex. 

"Pardon me, my friend has had too much to drink," Illya said loudly. That much he could afford to draw attention to. The drugged belligerent's fighting spirit seemed to rouse as he found himself tripping toward Irena.

"Now, now," Irena said. 

She kept her balance even with the embassy guest stumbling at her and muttering angrily.

"You know you should be a good boy and do what you're told. Be a good boy, and kill this naughty man for me." Irena's lips twisted in a sadistic smirk as gave the order to the drugged guest.

Illya found himself being roughly grabbed and pawed at by the man, clearly under the influence of the words that Irena had spoken Around the rest of the large salon, small scuffles were breaking out. Illya cursed under his breath in Ukrainian. The embassy security staff had been briefed about the possibility of sabotage. Illya just hoped that none of them had given in to the temptation of sweet dessert.

Illya struggled to break free of the larger man's grip. But now that he had received fresh instructions from the woman controlling his drugged mind with insidious words, the man's focus was totally on Illya. He had a strong grip, one arm pressing around Illya's throat uncomfortably.

Still, Illya's skills in combat were so far superior that he might as well have been fighting a heavy piece of furniture. He chopped down on the hand around his throat in a striking motion that broke the hold. Gasping in a deep breath, he spun around and threw a mean right hook into the man's jaw before he had time to recover his balance. 

Illya slipped from the man's grasp and ran out into the corridor in search of Irena. But it was no use, she'd already left the scene. He tried his communicator again. He still got no response from Napoleon. Illya called for Channel D.

* * *

Blood dripped from Napoleon's hand. He hadn't screamed into the rough gag yet, but at the cost of clenching his fist so tightly that his nails bit deeply into his skin. Barcani was an expert in the application of electricity. The nasty little device that she'd pulled from her toolbox and plugged into the wall outlet seemed designed to direct current through a cord into an object that looked just like a screwdriver, but when held next to the skin delivered a pulsing, thudding, shuddering sensation of pain. What made it almost more unbearable was Barcani's complete detachment. In between applications of electricity, Barcani was taking down notes and measuring Napoleon's blood pressure and heart rate as if he were a specimen in a lab.

A small but persistent beeping sounded from Napoleon's communicator. Barcani's eyes sharpened as she set down her notebook and picked his jacket up off the floor. The device stopped beeping before she got to it, but her whole demeanour changed. She obviously knew exactly what the sound was. And, therefore, she knew what Napoleon was.

He sighed, shaking some of the tension out of muscles strained by being held in one position and tight with the reflexive response to the currency running through them. Although the tape over his mouth had spared him from having to keep his cover up verbally, even under the pressure of torture and the duress of captivity he was denying himself some of the mental and physical tricks that would help him endure. A brush salesman would be defeated and broken by this experience; an UNCLE agent could hold himself with a steady core of defiance that would show in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders, a flame of belief that he would get through this and that THRUSH would not win at their game.

On the other hand, if Barcani had been acting with pure scientific reason before, now he might face her anger, and perhaps more drastic actions.

"So, not a hapless salesman," Barcani said, striding over to Napoleon and ripping the tape off from his mouth, "speak. What does UNCLE know?"

Napoleon coughed, clearing his throat.

"Ah, now that would be telling, wouldn't it?" he said. 

Napoleon felt the gaze of Barcani on him like a physical force. She stared at him analytically, seeming to take in the changes since he'd thrown off his undercover persona. In spite of the torture he'd just gone through, the drug still running through his veins, the half hour of steady electric shocks to muscle groups and sensitive nerve clusters, he was holding himself with pride and defiance. He no longer looked helpless and beaten down. There was something in his air, in his eye, the cock of his brow and sneer of his lip that revealed to the observer that he was a hardened, dangerous operative.

Barcani grunted, a short noise of frustration. She picked up the notebook she'd been recording Napoleon's vital signs in, and ran her finger down the numbers. She closed the notebook with a decisive snap.

"One chance to talk," she said.

"Or else?" Napoleon said silkily, "and or else what, exactly?"

"I should have caught on to you much sooner," Barcani said, "you do not have the physical constitution of a salesman. Your recovery to resting heart rate is excellent, and your blood pressure did not become overly high during my tests. Now, you can talk, or I can dose you intravenously with the 'mind control' drug we've developed. You know what I'm talking about."

Napoleon inclined his head graciously.

"Yes, I had heard about that little potion," he said.

"The oral dose has a short half life. Enough to cause suggestibility and emotional lability in subjects, although it requires direct oversight to ensure compliance."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. Certainly, Barcani wasn't intending him to live through this, if she was giving him this much information. The nature of the drug as she described it must be why the guests at embassy parties had become combative so quickly, and yet recovered quickly afterwards. None of them remembered who had been telling them what to do, but if the drug was truly a pyschoactive hypnotic then that little trick would only require telling them not to remember.

"The intravenous injection is a little slower to work, but it's more powerful. It also has more dangerous side effects. If you don't talk, and I have to inject you, you will start to feel dizzy and lightheaded as your heart rate becomes rapid and irregular. I've never been able to test both the drug you've already been dosed with and the suggestibility drug on the same subject, so personally, I'd prefer if you don't talk."

Napoleon thought back to the moment when he'd feared Barcani would strike out in rage at finding out that she'd been fooled, that he'd been undercover. He'd expected swift retribution. This calculated, scientific approach made his blood run cold. Anger led to mistakes that he could turn to his advantage. Scientific logic might lead to his downfall. 

* * *

Illya turned off his communicator and pursed his lips in frustration. According to the operator back at HQ, Napoleon hadn't called in since going to investigate the catering company's kitchens. But Mr. Waverley's instructions were passed along clearly. Illya was to stay and help keep the peace and manage the situation at the Embassy. UNCLE had opposed allowing the three suspicious organizations to continue offering services to Embassy functions until the investigation was over, but were unable to prevent this party going forward. And it had provided the confirmation they needed about which organization was responsible for the disruptions. But Illya knew that Mr. Waverley was very displeased that another scandalous outbreak of diplomatic drama had occurred under the watch of UNCLE.

So Illya was stuck here babysitting drunk and irritable dignitaries who kept trying to pick fights, until each of them had been safely escorted back to their residences. It didn't matter that his gut was telling him that Napoleon was in deep trouble. The wellbeing of these innocent victims came before his desire to storm the catering company and rescue his partner. Mr. Waverley was of the opinion that an agent ought to be able to look after himself for twelve hours. Illya trusted that Napoleon could; but that didn't stop him from worrying, or wanting to make sure that Napoleon didn't have to survive under adverse conditions for that long.

Illya's nerves were running ragged. The petit fours were gathered up to be analysed by Section Six. He'd pulled two young women off the Ecuadoran ambassador, amazed by the savage rage they'd displayed toward the poor elderly man. He'd stepped in and mediated a spat over the last of the stuffed mushrooms at the refreshment table.

All the while time ticked on. Irena had fled the scene and Illya had missed giving chase. Even if Napoleon's cover had been secure before, the THRUSH satrapy would be on high alert for a law enforcement presence as soon as she let them know that she'd been under suspicion at the Embassy. 

Illya watched as the last diplomat was escorted into a limousine. He looked at his watch. It was two in the morning. He should go back to his hotel room and call in to UNCLE HQ to report. Mr. Waverley would be waiting. After he'd reported, and the other agents who'd been on the scene had reported, they'd have a roundtable to discuss the next steps. Mr. Waverley would have to approve an assault on the satrapy. A strike team would be assembled from agents in the DC area, and a strategy formed to move on the catering kitchen with the least risk of civilian involvement and harm. Local law enforcement liaisons would need to be contacted and informed.

Illya could practically hear Napoleon dryly comment, "It's better to seek forgiveness than permission, my friend." 

He knew better than to act without at least informing Mr. Waverley. It was no good to rescue Napoleon from whatever situation he was in, only to end up getting him killed in the cross-fire when UNCLE did move on the building. Illya drove back to the hotel room to change into black clothing more suitable for a middle of the night action.

The catering kitchen was a short drive from Illya's hotel, in a small industrial area of DC. Just long enough for Illya to communicate back to HQ to the effect that he was going after Napoleon, he'd connect up with the strike team when they arrived, and meanwhile, he was going radio silent. He turned off his communicator, ignoring the squawks of dissent coming through from the operator on the other side.

* * *

"What was the question again? I'm sorry, I seem to have been a little distracted?" Napoleon said, both playing for time and trying to elicit any emotion from Barcani. If he couldn't get anger, he could work with annoyance.

"Don't play games. What does UNCLE know?" Barcani asked again. She was already prepping a clean syringe and an ampoule full of a pale green liquid.

Strange to think that the little bottle contained the elixir that was driving half of Washington mad, Napoleon thought. Lucia Barcani was truly brilliant. It was a shame that she'd chosen to work for THRUSH.

Napoleon opened his mouth to make another smartass comment- he hadn't quite formulated it yet, but he trusted that something good would come out - when the door to the cellar opened, revealing a redheaded vision in a little black dress. That was more like Napoleon's idea of a THRUSH operative. 

"Well, hello there," he said, in his most charmingly unctuous tone, "welcome to the party. I'd introduce myself, but I'm not talking right now." 

Irena Sobotka glanced at Napoleon, her eyes raking up and down him before she dismissed him and turned to address Barcani.

"We're blown," she said, "there was law enforcement at the party. I don't know who, yet, but we should pack up and get out."

Barcani gestured at the communicator she'd retrieved from Napoleon's jacket.

"UNCLE," she said, her tone remaining unemotional.

Sobotka paced the room.

"How long do we have?" she asked.

"They've got our location. Median time from UNCLE discovery to raids on satrapys over the last six months is 3.2 hours. I want to get more answers from this one before we go. Get the crew packing, then help me," Barcani said briskly.

Irena left the room. Barcani didn't hesitate any longer before dosing Napoleon with the mind control drug.

"That ought to take effect before Sobotka is back," Barcani said, "You should have taken the easy way and talked. She's much less patient than I am."

The effect of the new drug on Napoleon's system was a slow transition from the burning fire of chemical hell into a fuzzier place where everything in the starkly lit white basement seemed to shimmer with a pearlescent haze. He could feel his heart rate quicken, his pulse drumbeat loud in his temples. A spasm ran through his body and he clenched his teeth, dropping his head forward, his hair falling tousled and messy over his forehead. Napoleon felt a surge of itchiness, an urge to do something, fight someone. Anger simmered in him, an urge for violent action. 

He struggled in his bonds, fighting the sensation of being chained. If only he could do something. If Barcani came back in now he'd rip her throat out. The drumming in his head, the heat rising through him, it was all too much. Clenching his jaw, he struggled to find the energy to return to his self-appointed task of loosening the infernal eye bolt that kept him here, in the hands of these THRUSH torturers and their hideous drugs.

The door swung open and Irena Sobotka strode in. Napoleon lunged and snarled at her.

"Now, now, my friend," Irena said, a warm honeyed amusement in her voice, "You are going to listen to me, and you are going to do what I tell you."

Napoleon felt the words wash over him, a cool trickle of water over his fevered mind. Yes, listen to her. The part of him that had been trained to fight back, trained to counter interrogations, stirred at this. Anxious. Competing impulses ran through him: the urge to lean in toward the sweet voice of the woman in front of him hung in tension with a deep instinct to fight back against that feeling, to hold on to his sense of self a little longer.

Napoleon set his jaw, "I'm sorry, but I don't take orders from little birds."

The words came out less forcefully than he intended, but even the small show of defiance braced Napoleon against the effects of the drug on his mind.

"Bold words," Irena said, "but with the dose of medicine that you got, you'll do as I say soon enough. Be a good little boy and tell me your name. That's an easy enough place to start."

Napoleon shook his head slowly from side to side, trying to clear it. Name, rank, and serial number, name, rank, and serial number.That wasn't so bad was it? That's what you were supposed to tell interrogators. But it felt wrong to give in to the question.

"Little Boy Blue," he slurred out, fighting down the words "Solo, Napoleon Solo," swallowing the name he would not speak like ground glass against his throat.

Irena pursed her lips. A flash of anger showed in her eyes. Part of Napoleon wanted to cringe away from it, wanted to do do anything to appease her.

Her hand flashed out, slapping him hard across the face, once, and then a second time.

"Try again. The more you fight the worse this will be. If you want to live you'll start to comply. What. Is. Your. Name?"

Napoleon bit down hard on his lip, tensing the muscles in his neck. He closed his eyes. His heart was pounding.

"Englebert... Humperdinck," he ground out between clenched teeth. Every impulse was clamoring for him to do as she asked, to just let go and float on her approval.

"Your name."

"Aethelred the Unready."

"Tell me your name."

"Ethel Merman."

Irena stepped closer to Napoleon, getting into his personal space. She ran her hand gently down his face, her thumb brushing over his bruised lip. If her voice had felt like cool, gentle water, her touch was a soothing balm against the jangling of every nerve in Napoleon's body.

"Don't be stubborn, I just want you to feel better," Irena whispered in Napoleon's ear, "Come now. Tell me your name."

The word fell from Napoleon's lips brokenly.

"Solo."

* * *

Illya raced through the streets of DC. Traffic had died down. He kept one eye out for patrol cars as he ran every red light that it was safe to. Three blocks out from the catering kitchen, he pulled over and parked by the side of the road. From here he didn't know what kind of security THRUSH would have. Any one of the nearby buildings could contain a sentry post. The back of his neck prickled as he strolled nonchalantly down the street. If there were operatives with binoculars gazing out of one window or another, he wanted to be uninteresting and unmemorable. Just another shift-worker headed to the job, or an insomniac taking in some night air.

Illya felt the tension in his body heighten when he came alongside where the catering business was headquartered. The chainlink fence looked ordinary enough. A bit run down, bent in places, curled up away from the ground. It was a good camouflage, but Illya knew what he was looking for. Just beyond the fence, right where someone would land if they came over it, was a thin line of dirt that broke up the straggly grass a little too cleanly to be an accident of growth. No doubt there was some sort of pressure-sensitive wire around the edge of the compound.

Likewise, as Illya strolled past the gates locked against the night with haphazard chains and padlocks, he noticed the small red eye of a camera pointing toward the gate from a rusty looking post. He kept his head down and kept his pace steady as he continued down the block past the industrial park. If those were the security measures that he'd seen, he could guess that there were more hidden. Most of the warehouses and office buildings that made up the industrial park were dark for the night, but there was no telling. If the whole industrial park belonged to THRUSH there might be pitfalls at every turn.

He walked down two more blocks then took the next two lefts to double back toward the dark shadows of the industrial park. He didn't get the sense that he'd been spotted. Illya pulled a dark watch cap out of his pocket and put it on, tucking his blond hair under it. He pulled out a small tin of boot black from a pocket and darkened his face. 

Illya climbed the chain link fence quickly. He paused at the top, balanced on the balls of his feet, and launched himself over the line where the pressure plates must be buried. He hit the ground in a roll and then lay still and flat, waiting for signs that he'd triggered any alarms. 

With long-practiced patience, Illya held still for several long minutes. Yes, the stakes were always high when Solo's life was on the line. But the change from partners to lovers really hadn't made any difference there. From their first mission together, Illya had felt the pull to ensure Napoleon's safety. By the time they gave in to the chemistry burning between them, the foundation of love and loyalty had been set in stone.

Hearing no hue and cry, Illya rose slowly to his feet. Keeping to a low crouch he crept toward the first building. The ambient light from the city was enough to see by. Once he was past the perimeter, Illya trod cautiously across an open grassy area. The probability of dangerous traps in the grassy area was low, given the number of civilians in the neighborhood. But he could still set off an alarm if he stumbled on a trip wire or stepped on a pressure plate. In patches where the grass was high, he swept gently ahead of his steps with one hand. Illya's caution was rewarded by finding a metal plate buried not far beneath the ground in one spot, and steering carefully around it.

Soon he was able to slide into the shadow of one of the buildings, the brick wall of a warehouse at his back. He pressed his back to the wall and slid along. Ahead he could hear commotion. There was something going out outside the ordinary overnight business of baking and preparation in the buildings around the catering kitchen.

As he got closer to the center of the action he saw men clad in denim coveralls with the THRUSH logo embroidered on the breast ferrying boxes and crates on dollies into the open doors of several large trucks. THRUSH were packing up to leave, sneaking away like a thief in the night. Illya groaned quietly. Any doubt that Napoleon's cover was blown was gone - the organization obviously knew that UNCLE was onto their activities.

The bustle provided more of a diversion than Illya had been expecting. His progress past the last warehouse before the catering kitchen was still agonizingly slow. As much as he was in a hurry to get to Napoleon, raising the alarm would help neither of them. One guard crossed his path, and Illya struck quickly and cleanly, dropping the man with a well-timed tranquilizer dart.

Then there was just a well-lit patch of concrete between the warehouse and the kitchen to traverse. Illya waited, holding his breath, marking the minutes in his head before he had a clear run to dash across to the loading bay for the building. As he got closer to where he hoped he'd find Napoleon, Ilya's mood grew colder and and more tightly controlled, preparing for the worst and ready to rain destruction down on THRUSH if what he feared most had already come to pass.

* * *

Irena Sobotka had made one mistake. Overconfidence was her undoing. Triumphant at wresting a name from Solo, she'd turned her back on him to call Barcani back down into the basement.

Napoleon took a chance. If it didn't work, then he'd have lost his only possibility to break free. But if it did...! He swung his bodyweight up by the length of chain and kicked out with both legs, striking Irena down with a blow to the small of her back. She cried out as she fell to the floor, robbed of her breath. 

Napoleon had gambled well. The full swing of his weight against the eyebolt he'd been working on jarred it. He felt it grind against the ceiling, plaster dust raining down on him. Mustering everything he had, he swung himself out across the room again, hoping that physics would be on his side and the torque would loosen it further. The second swing didn't quite finish the job. Napoleon breathed harshly, agony running through his limbs as he braced against the floor and then kicked out for a third time, just as Barcani ran into the room wielding a large marble french rolling pin.

"Irena," she shouted. Napoleon yanked the chain out from the ceiling. He tried to whip the length of it toward Barcani but his arms felt like rubber, and instead he stumbled and the chain swung down toward the back of his head. He searched for the momentum to use his bondage as an advantage in the fight, but in the end all he could do was to throw his body toward Barcani, charging forward with his shoulder down.

Barcani lashed out with the rolling pin, swinging it in an arc toward Napoleon's head. He stumbled and ducked under it, feeling a glancing blow across his shoulder. Sensation was coming back into his arms and hands, a new fire lighting in his fingers to join the burning nerve pain from the drug. But that meant control was coming back, too, and although his motion was clumsy, Napoleon managed to swing the length of chain running from his hands so that it slapped up harshly into Barcani's face. Then he was in grappling distance, and she lost the advantage of being armed as she had no room to get a good strike at him with the heavy pin. Napoleon had one other advantage - he knew he was fighting for his life.

Barcani was beginning to regret dosing Solo with the second drug. It not only lowered inhibitions to make people suggestible, it had the bonus effect of fueling a rage in them. That same rage that THRUSH had put to good use in stirring up diplomatic situations was now powering the injured UNCLE agent in front of her. She bulled forward, using her greater mass and muscle to crowd Napoleon back against the wall.

Napoleon struggled, lashing out with his feet and shackled fists. He landed a heavy blow on Barcani's chin and she reeled back a step but then came back in. He fought her back, but couldn't turn the tide and soon found himself pinned, the cold marble rolling pin pressing heavily against his throat.

Only then did Barcani look over her shoulder. Irena was moaning and pulling herself up to her knees, looking dazed from where her head had struck the hard floor. Barcani growled and pressed down on Napoleon's trachea, cutting off his air. It would be one redeeming grace from the whole disastrous affair if they could bring the UNCLE agent in to THRUSH HQ alive. But Barcani would be just as happy to report that the prisoner had died in a struggle, if he'd hurt Irena.

With one last desperate surge of energy Napoleon flailed out, jabbing toward Barcani's solar plexus and kicking at her legs, a red rage over his eyes.

* * *

lllya rounded the corner to the basement door with his Special drawn and took in the scene. Irena Sobotka was getting to her feet. When she saw Illya, she lunged toward him before he could get a shot off, moving with a speed that belied the blood dripping down her forehead and glazed set to her eyes. She wrestled viciously, smacking Illya's hand into the doorframe. Pain shot through his hand and he dropped the gun.

"You!" Irena exclaimed. The vixenish look from the Embassy was gone, replaced by a cold and serious malevolence. "Why do men have to ruin everything?"

Illya didn't grace her with an answer. They fought in a silent scuffle as Napoleon struggled wildly with a solidly built THRUSH woman who Illya hadn't seen before. 

Irena Sobotka might be slight of stature, but her grappling game was fierce. Illya detected a mix of styles drawn from as far afield as Brazil and Korea in the techniques she used as she tried to take him down. Illya got the upper hand quickly. But he knew it would have been a different story if she hadn't already taken a knock to the head. Illya pushed Sobotka down to the floor of the cellar and held her with a knee on her back as he reached for his fallen gun and then quickly shot a dart into her exposed neck. 

Against the wall, Napoleon's lips were turning blue. His struggles, no matter how heated, couldn't shake Barcani's hold, nor force her to ease the pressure on his throat. Illya turned without hesitation and put one and then another dart into Barcani's torso. Quickly, the drug took effect, and she tumbled to the floor. 

Napoleon fell to his knees, gasping for breath. 

Illya hurried to his partner's side. 

Napoleon snarled and turned on Illya, his face tight with rage as he lunged forward, stumbling back to his feet.

Illya grasped Napoleon's bound arms, the gentlest grip he could get on the forearms, just above the wrist. He could see that Napoleon was in considerable physical pain, but also he was clearly under the influence of the THRUSH drug, and looking for more of a fight.

"Napoleon," Illya said, his voice as steady as he could make it, "you are safe, partner. I'm here. You can stop fighting."

Solo struggled a moment longer and then the light of understanding washed into his eyes. He sagged and then slumped forward into Illya's open arms.

Illya pressed his lips together in a tight frown. For Napoleon to show such weakness, even in front of just Illya, spoke of him having endured dire torments. He lowered Napoleon to the floor gently, then took a moment to search Napoleon's fallen THRUSH assailant for the key to the shackles.

Leaning over Napoleon to unshackle his hands, Illya was struck by the intensity of Napoleon's gaze, those deep brown eyes looking up at him with disconcerting fondness. 

"Good timing, partner," Solo croaked out, the bruising that was blooming across his throat already making speaking more painful than he'd prefer. It was a minor agony compared to everything that the THRUSH agents had put him through, and it was so good to have Illya right there in front of him.

"A slight difficulty in my timing is that I was not able to wait for backup," Illya said, as he ran his hands over Napoleon's body, checking for any major injuries that might not be immediately visible, but mostly taking comfort in finding his partner alive.

"Yes," Napoleon said, clearing his throat and then speaking again, "The pretty one said something about three hours on average."

"Clever little birdies. Just what we need," Illya grumbled, "Do you think that you can make it out of here, or shall we hold down the fort?"

Napoleon grimaced. He had seen enough of the inside of this small room to last a lifetime. With no backup coming for another couple of hours, and his body putting in a fairly convincing effort to refuse any sort of motion at all, the wisest choice would be to stay put, bar the door, and keep as much out of the shooting portion of the evening as possible.

"Well," he said, drawing the word out to three syllables of indecision.

"Right," Illya said, "Let's get you on your feet and make a break for it."

Napoleon sighed with relief. Of course Illya would know that all other things being equal, he'd opt for action.

* * *

One very awkward communicator conversation with Waverley later, while Napoleon, damn him, just looked on with a smirk, and Illya was ready to take up the burden of getting his partner out of the compound. Napoleon was putting on a brave face, but in this room under the harsh light, the chains he'd been bound in lying beside him, the instruments of torture still on the table, the smell of sweat and blood mingling with the heavy sickly sweet smell of the bakery, his endurance was obviously being tested.

Illya gently brushed Napoleon's hair off his forehead, restoring at least the dignity of his tidy coiffure. 

"Up you get," Illya said, carefully helping Napoleon back to his feet. He gave his partner the courtesy of not mentioning his general shakiness. Instead Illya let Napoleon lean his weight on him as they went up the small flight of steps from the cellar, Illya slightly ahead with his Special drawn. Napoleon had confiscated Irena's gun, but it was anyone's guess as to whether he'd have the grip strength to squeeze the trigger.

The stairs led up to the kitchen. Napoleon took a deep breath, feeling a certain constriction loosen in his chest at being out of the cellar where he, and who knows how many other men before him, had been tortured for Barcani's twisted scientific goals.

His heart was pounding fast but irregularly. He could feel the insidious drug still pushing at him to be pliant and biddable, and right now Illya was the one giving the orders. Napoleon leaned on Illya and moved at the rapid pace his partner was setting without verbal complaint, though he felt like every inch of his body was silently screaming.

Empty of activity now that the THRUSH operatives had fled their cover jobs to pack the satrapy up and move on, the big industrial kitchen was an eerie mass of jumbled shadows. Illya was pushing the pace, apparently determined to get Napoleon out of there while he could still move on his own accord. 

A slight shift of light and sound out of place set both agents onto high alert. 

"Stay here," Illya said in a low tone to Napoleon.

Napoleon leaned against a counter and blinked at the darkness. He could make out Ilya's sleek form as he crossed under a rack of heavy pots, and then sudden violence as Illya sprung the trap of the THRUSH agent lying in waiting for them.

Napoleon felt hot desire rise to go and help his partner. But Illya's last instruction to him was to wait, and the compulsion of the drug to obey, obey, obey was too strong for him to fight. Even more than Irena, he craved the feeling of warmth and wellbeing that obeying Illya's trusted words brought. But Illya could be in trouble, and what if Napoleon could save his life and was, instead, leaning here uselessly. Napoleon twitched with frustrated indecision, his heart pounding and his breath coming in short gasps. The shadows in the kitchen seemed to swirl around him, more motion than could be accounted for by the sharp, dirty fight between Illya and the THRUSH agent.

By the time Illya crossed back across the kitchen, Napoleon had slid down onto the polished linoleum floor, his back pressed to the island he'd been leaning on, eyes glazed with pain as he struggled to breathe.

Illya swore softly. He kneeled down in front of Napoleon and pressed his fingers to Napoleon's neck, feeling the racing, erratic pulse. He tch'd, berating himself mentally for not noticing just what rough shape Napoleon was in.

Leaving no room for argument, Illya maneuvered so that he could put his shoulder under Napoleon's ribs and swing him up into a fireman's carry. Napoleon might be taller and more broadly built, but nothing would have stopped Illya from lifting him up and carrying him out of danger.

Napoleon fussed a bit at finding himself carried.

"Be still," Illya said, and the terse matter-of-factness of the order settled something in Napoleon, a sense of calm and safety soothing down his agitation. Illya was so very solid and real and no-nonsense, it was easy for Napoleon to trust him to get them both out of there.

The escape from the industrial compound was not going to go down as one of Illya's most pleasant evenings. A limp and overly passive Napoleon was its own kind of nerve-wracking horror, no matter how much easier it made it to traverse back through the shadows and steal one of the THRUSH trucks from under the nose of the remaining THRUSH agents.

It was a relief when Napoleon started to put up a fight once they got back to headquarters, demanding to walk on his own without Illya's help, and fussing about being sent to medical for a good long stay while Illya went to face Waverley and take his licks.

* * *

It was suspiciously convenient that Illya's suspension for disobeying orders and going out of contact to rescue Napoleon coincided almost exactly with the amount of recovery leave Napoleon had been assigned. If Napoleon didn't know better, he'd say that Waverley had a soft spot for his two top agents. Still, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. A couple of days in medical and he was feeling a lot closer to normal. The doctor warned him that he'd still be feeling the irregular heartbeat for a while, and once in a while a sharp shock of nerve pain would shoot through one of his limbs. But he no longer felt mentally compromised by the drugs he'd been dosed with. And that was the most important step for his own sense of recovery.

It wasn't the first time the close-knit partners had to work separately and things had gone off the rails, and undoubtedly it wouldn't be the last time. Selfishly, Napoleon was glad that this time, he'd been the one to take the brunt of it, rather than having to see Illya hurt. He'd rather live with the memory of Lucia Barcani's grim, businesslike approach to dealing pain than live with being the one to come through the door and find his partner battered and weak.

And, it meant that he got to sit on his comfortable, plushly stuffed leather couch with his feet on an ottoman and order Illya around like a manservant, which was always entertaining. Left to his own devices after a mission that had gone roughly on Napoleon, Illya had a tendency to retreat into a stoic eastern european silence, cleaning his guns and glaring out of the corner of his eye at Napoleon.

"Hmm, Illya, I could use another pillow," Napoleon said, his fifth request in as many minutes. Really, he was quite comfortable, a drink and a sandwich on a side table, fluffy cushions all around him, a plaid blanket over his knees. But he had something else in mind.

Illya stalked into the room with a pillow.

"Anything else?" he said with strained patience as he came over to slide the pillow behind Napoleon's back.

Quick as a whip, Napoleon stuck a leg out and grabbed Illya's wrist, flipping him down onto the couch, lying half on top of Napoleon.

"Idiot," Illya grumbled, "I could have hurt you!"

Napoleon cuddled his ill-gotten Illya closer.

"Oh no, tovarisch, that you could never do."

**Author's Note:**

> What a delight it was writing this story for Nangi Akki - some fine, fine inspiration came my way. I hope the story fits the brief. And I threw in a little illustration. Thank you for your generosity in supporting the Southern Poverty Law Center. Together we resist!


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